It never occurred to Honora that had it not been for Peter those evenings would have been even less bearable than they were.  To sit indoors with a light and read in a St. Louis midsummer was not to be thought of.  Peter played backgammon with her on the front steps, and later on—­chess.  Sometimes they went for a walk as far as Grand Avenue.  And sometimes when Honora grew older—­she was permitted to go with him to Uhrig’s Cave.  Those were memorable occasions indeed!

What Saint Louisan of the last generation does not remember Uhrig’s Cave? nor look without regret upon the thing which has replaced it, called a Coliseum?  The very name, Uhrig’s Cave, sent a shiver of delight down one’s spine, and many were the conjectures one made as to what might be enclosed in that half a block of impassible brick wall, over which the great trees stretched their branches.  Honora, from comparative infancy, had her own theory, which so possessed the mind of Edith Hanbury that she would not look at the wall when they passed in the carriage.  It was a still and sombre place by day; and sometimes, if you listened, you could hear the whisperings of the forty thieves on the other side of the wall.  But no one had ever dared to cry “Open, Sesame!” at the great wooden gates.

At night, in the warm season, when well brought up children were at home or at the seashore, strange things were said to happen at Uhrig’s Cave.

Honora was a tall slip of a girl of sixteen before it was given her to know these mysteries, and the Ali Baba theory a thing of the past.  Other theories had replaced it.  Nevertheless she clung tightly to Peter’s arm as they walked down Locust Street and came in sight of the wall.  Above it, and under the big trees, shone a thousand glittering lights:  there was a crowd at the gate, and instead of saying, “Open, Sesame,” Peter slipped two bright fifty-cent pieces to the red-faced German ticketman, and in they went.

First and most astounding of disillusions of passing childhood, it was not a cave at all!  And yet the word “disillusion” does not apply.  It was, after all, the most enchanting and exciting of spots, to make one’s eye shine and one’s heart beat.  Under the trees were hundreds of tables surrounded by hovering ministering angels in white, and if you were German, they brought you beer; if American, ice-cream.  Beyond the tables was a stage, with footlights already set and orchestra tuning up, and a curtain on which was represented a gentleman making decorous love to a lady beside a fountain.  As in a dream, Honora followed Peter to a table, and he handed her a programme.

“Oh, Peter,” she cried, “it’s going to be ’Pinafore’!”

Honora’s eyes shone like stars, and elderly people at the neighbouring tables turned more than once to smile at her that evening.  And Peter turned more than once and smiled too.  But Honora did not consider Peter.  He was merely Providence in one of many disguises, and Providence is accepted by his beneficiaries as a matter of fact.